Contemplations - Anne Bradstreet

Contemplations by Anne Bradstreet, read by Laura Flavia. Some time now passed in the autumn-no-tide, when Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed. The trees, all richly clad, yet void of pride, were gilded o'er by his rich golden head. Their leaves and fruits seemed painted but was true, of green, of red, of yellow mixed hue, wrapped were my senses at this delectable view. I wished not what to wish, yet sure thought I, if so much excellence abide below, how excellent is he that dwells on high, whose power and beauty by his works we know. Sure he is goodness, wisdom, glory, light, that hath this underworld so richly dyed. More heaven than earth was here, no winter and no night. Then on a stately oak I cast mine eye, whose ruffling top the clouds seem to aspire. How long since thou wast in thine infancy? Thy strength and stature more thy years admire. Hath hundred winters passed since thou wast born, or thousand sins thou breakest thy shell of horn? If so, all these as naught eternity doth scorn. Then higher on the glistering sun I gazed, whose beams was shaded by the leafy tree. The more I looked, the more I grew amazed, and softly said, what glory is like to thee, soul of this world, this universe's eye? No wonder some made thee a deity, had I not better known, alas, the same had I. Thou as a bridegroom from thy chamber rushes, and as a strong man joyst to run a race, the moon doth usher thee with smiles and blushes. The earth reflect her glances in thy face. Birds, insects, animals, and vegetative, thy heat from death and dullness doth revive, and in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive. Thy swift annual and diurnal course, thy daily straight and yearly oblique path, thy pleasing favour and thy scorching force, all mortals here their feeling knowledge hath. Thy presence makes it day, thy absence night, quarter no seasons caused by thy might. Hail, creature full of sweetness, beauty, and delight! Art thou so full of glory that no eye hath strength thy shining rays wants to behold, and is thy splendid throne erect so high as to approach it can no earthly mould? How full of glory, then, must thy Creator be, who gave this bright light luster unto thee? Admired, adored, forever be that majesty! Silent alone were none, or saw, or heard. In pathless paths I led my wandering feet, my humble eyes to lofty skies I read, to sing some song my amazed muse thought meet. My great Creator I would magnify, that nature had thus decked liberally, but ah, and ah again, my imbecility! I heard the merry grasshopper then sing, the black-clad cricket bear a second part, they kept one tune and played on the same string, seeming to glory in their little art. Shall creatures object, thus their voices raise, and in their kind resound their Maker's praise, whilst I, as mute, can wobble forth no higher lays. When present times look back to ages past, and men in being fancy, those are dead, it makes things gone perpetually to last, and calls back months and years that long since fled, it makes a man more aged in conceit. That was Methuselah, all's grandsire great, while of their persons and their acts his mind doth treat. Sometimes in Eden fair he seems to be, see glorious Adam there made Lord of all, fancies the apple dangle on the tree, that turn his sovereign to a naked thrall. Who, like a miscreant, striven from that place, to get his bread with pain and sweat of face, a penalty imposed on his backsliding race. Here sits our grand-dame in retired place, and in her lap her bloody-caned newborn, the weeping imp oft looks her in the face, bewails his unknown hap and fate forlorn. His mother sighs to think of paradise, and how she lost her bliss to be more wise, believing him that was, and is, father of lies. Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice, fruits of the earth and fatlings each to bring, on Abel's gift the fire descends from skies, but no such sign on false Cain's offering. With sullen hateful looks he goes his ways, hath thousand thoughts to end his brother's days, upon whose blood his future good he hopes to raise. There Abel keeps his sheep no ill he thinks, his brother comes and acts his fratricide. The virgin earth of blood hath first draught drinks, but since that time she often hath been cloyed. The wretch with ghastly face and dreadful mind, thinks each he sees will serve him in his kind, though none on earth but kindred near then could he find. Who fences not his looks now at the bar? His face like death, his heart with horror fraught. No male factor ever felt like war, when deep despair with wish of life hath fought. Branded with guilt and crushed with treble wars, a vagabond to land of Nord he goes, a city builds that walls might him secure from foes. Who thinks not up upon the father's ages? Their long descent how nephew's sons they saw, their starry observations of those sages, and how their precepts to their sons were low. How Adam sighed to see his progeny, clothed all in his black sinful livery, who neither guilt not yet the punishment could fly. Our life compare we with their length of days, who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive, and though thus short we shorten many ways. Living so little while we are alive, in eating, drinking, sleeping vain delight, so unawares comes on perpetual night, and puts all pleasures vain unto eternal flight. When I behold the heavens as in their prime, and then the earth though old still clad in green, the stones and trees insensible of time, nor age nor wrinkle on their front as seen, if winter come and greenness then do fade, as spring returns and thy more youthful maid, when man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid, by birth more noble than those creatures all. Yet seems by nature and by custom curse, no sooner born but grief and care makes fall, that state obliterate he had at first. No youth, no strength, no wisdom spring again, no habitations long their names retain, but in oblivion to the final day remain. Shall I then praise the heavens, the trees, the earth, because their beauty and their strength last longer? Shall I wish there or never to had birth, because they're bigger and their bodies stronger? Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and die, and when unmade, so ever shall they lie. But man was made for endless immortality, under the cooling shadow of a stately elm, close said I by a goodly riverside, where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm, a lonely place with pleasures dignified. I once that loved the shady woods so well, now thought the rivers did the trees excel, and if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell. While on the stilling stream I fixed mine eye, which to the longed-for ocean held its course, I marked no crooks, no rubs that there did lie, could hinder aught but still augment its course. O happy flood, cause I that holds thy race, till thou arrive at thy beloved place, nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace. Nor is it enough that thou alone may slide, but hundred brooks in thy clear waves do meet, so hand in hand along with thee they glide, to Thetis' house where all embrace and greet. Thou emblem true of what I count the best, or could I leave the rivulets to rest? So may we press to that vast mansion ever blessed. Ye fish, which in this liquid region bide, that for each season have your habitation, now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide, so are non-caused to give a visitation. In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry, so nature taught, and yet you know not why. You watery fog that know not your felicity. Look how the wantons frisk to test the air, then to the colder bottom straight they dive, efton to Neptune's glassy hole repair, to see what trade they great ones there do drive, who forage o'er the special sea-green field, and take the trembling prey before it yield, whose armor is their scales, their spreading fins their shield. While musing thus with contemplation fed, and thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, the sweet tongue do philomel purge all my head, and chanted forth a most melodious strain, which wrap me so with wonder and delight, I judge my hearing better than my sight, and wish me wings with her awhile to take my flight. O merry bird, say thy, that fears no snares, that neither tolls nor holds up in thy barn, feels no sad thoughts nor cruciating cares, to gain more good, or shun what might thee harm. Thy clothes ne'er wear, thy bed a bowl, thy drink the water clear, reminds not what is past, nor what to come does fear. The dawning morn with songs though thus prevent, sets hundred knots unto thy feathered crew, so each one tunes his pretty instrument, and wobbling o'er the old begin anew, and thus they pass their youth in summer season, then follow thee into a better region, where winters never felt by that sweet airy legion. Man at the best a creature frail and vain, in knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak, subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain, each storm his state, his mind, his body break, from some of these he never finds cessation, but day or night, within, without vexation, troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, nearest relation. And yet this sinful creature, frail and vain, this lamp of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow, this weather-beaten vessel, wracked with pain, joys not in hope of an eternal morrow, nor all his losses, crosses and vexation, in weight, in frequency and long duration, can make him deeply groan for that divine translation. The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide, sings merrily and steers his barque with ease, as if he had command of wind and tide, and now becomes great master of the seas, but suddenly a storm spoils all the sport, and makes him long for a more quiet port, which, against all adverse winds, may serve for fort. So he that faileth in this world of pleasure, fitting on sweet, that never beat of the soul, that's full of friends, of honor and of treasure, fond fool, he takes this earth even for heaven's bower, but sad affliction comes and makes him see, he is neither honor, wealth, nor safety, only above is found, all with security. O time, the feral rock of mortal things, that draws oblivious cartons over kings, their sumptuous monuments men know them not, their names without a record are forgot, their parts, their ports, their palms all laid in the dust, no wheat, no gold, no building scape times rust, but he whose name is graved in the white stone, shall last and shine when all of these are gone.